The train hummed beneath me, a rhythmic chug-chug that echoed against the cold steel of King's Cross Station. The platform outside shimmered with the final flurries of summer mist, and the rain that clung to the windows made everything seem like a memory. Or maybe I was already drowning in my own.
I glanced down at the photo album spread open on my lap—a parting gift from my friends at snow fields. It was filled with moving pictures: one of us hurling snowballs in the middle of the courtyard, another of me falling over a broomstick with an exaggerated grimace, and a group shot with Turner, my owl, perched squarely on my head. The images wavered gently, almost like the ghosts of better days, and I felt a lump in my throat I hadn't expected.
I'd promised to write to them the moment I arrived at Hogwarts.
Transferring schools was never easy. Leaving behind the snow, the stone towers, and the people who made the harsh winters feel warm—that was hard. But everything becomes just a little more complicated when your surname is Potter.
Especially when you're the other Potter. The one no one really talks about.
The one who wasn't there that night.
When our parents were murdered by Voldemort, my brother Harry was the one who lived. The Boy Who Lived. The symbol of resistance. The child who bore the lightning scar. Me? I was just... Peter. A child quietly spirited away to another part of the country for safety, unknown, unscarred, and untouched by legend.
Most people didn't even realize Harry had a twin brother. The few who did assumed I was attending some posh magical academy overseas or... had vanished. And in a way, they weren't wrong.
When Hagrid came for us, I remember the way Harry's eyes lit up like Christmas. He belonged immediately. He belonged at Hogwarts. I didn't.
While he prepared for his journey into fame, I turned in another direction. I applied to Durmstrang as an international student the moment I understood I was a wizard. They accepted me. Cold, secretive, and built like a fortress, it felt oddly like home. It didn't ask questions. It didn't expect me to live up to a name.
Two years passed. Two years of letters exchanged. Then one letter. Then silence.
I sent Harry an owl when I decided to transfer to Hogwarts. I never got a reply. Maybe Turner lost the letter. Twice. Maybe Harry was too busy. Maybe... maybe it hurt me.
But something in my chest told me this transfer wasn't just a whim. It felt right.
Even if my friends thought I was out of my mind, they supported me. They'd grown to understand that instinct means more to wizards than logic sometimes. My departure was teary but hopeful. They hugged me, clapped me on the back, and made me promise not to forget them.
I wouldn't.
Getting to Platform 9 ¾ was another story. I'd never been to King's Cross before. I'd read about the process—run at the wall between Platforms 9 and 10—but that didn't make it feel any less ridiculous.
So there I stood, fifteen minutes in, waiting for someone magical to make the jump first. A few Muggles passed me by with brief glances, none of them daring enough to throw themselves at brick.
Eventually, I gave up watching. I clenched my fists around the handle of my trolley, glanced at Turner perched on the cage, and sprinted.
The bricks vanished, and I stumbled out into a world of steam and magic. The Hogwarts Express gleamed ahead of me, freshly arrived and humming with energy. Parents hugged their children, laughter echoed across the platform, and excitement shimmered in the air.
I was early. That was intentional. I didn't want to run into Harry on a crowded platform. I didn't even know if he knew I was coming. Better to find him quietly.
I boarded the train first. The empty corridors hummed with peace. I chose a compartment near the back, stowed my bag, and sat beside the window. Rumor had it the view was stunning. Even the rain couldn't blur the colors of the countryside as the train began to move.
Students filed in slowly. The buzz grew louder. Laughter, tears, reunions.
But I didn't move. I watched. Waited. Hoped.
Harry. Round glasses. Messy hair. A face I hadn't seen in three years.
He didn't appear.
Two girls joined me eventually. They took the opposite bench without a word. I didn't mind. Silence was its own kind of comfort.
But my thoughts kept drifting. To our childhood. To the silence that grew between us like fog. To the unanswered letters.
I stared out the window, expecting trees. Green grass. Maybe a lake. But instead, I was met with dark clouds and an oppressive fog that thickened until the entire landscape vanished.
The train shuddered and stopped.
"We're not there yet," one of the girls said nervously.
I turned back toward the window. Ice was crawling up the glass.
The air inside the compartment dropped, cold sweeping through us like a breath held too long.
Then—light. Warmth. A jolt.
The train began to move again.
"Merlin's beard," I muttered.
"That wasn't normal," the blonde girl said, clutching her robes.
"River Talpin," she added, brushing her hair behind her ear. "And this is Aramin Feast."
I nodded. "Peter. Peter Potter."
Both of their eyebrows shot up. "Potter?" River echoed, eyes flickering to my scarless forehead.
"I can explain," I started. "But I really need to find the other Potter first."
We reached the station.
The platform was chaos. I searched frantically for Harry. Students were already flooding out, robes flapping in the breeze. None of the faces were his.
I tried not to panic. I had to talk to him before the Sorting Ceremony. Before the whole school knew.
I rushed up to a group of students. "Have any of you seen Harry Potter?"
A sneer met me.
The blonde boy I instantly regretted approaching scoffed. "He fainted. Probably on his way to Madam Pomfrey right now."
My heart dropped.
"What is he, your boyfriend?" another boy sniggered.
I reached for my wand.
But I stopped myself. Barely.
First day. Deep breath. No casualties.
I shoved past them, slamming my shoulder into the ringleader's. He stumbled.
Good.
Maybe Harry and I weren't so different after all.